


wherever you go (there you are)

by BookLoverL



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha Scott McCall, Attempted mugging, Banshee Lydia, Canon Compliant, Gen, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, MIT, McCall Pack, Murder, Post-Season/Series 06, Protective Scott McCall, UC Davis, fbi training, post 6b
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-06
Updated: 2017-10-09
Packaged: 2019-01-09 19:22:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,561
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12282822
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BookLoverL/pseuds/BookLoverL
Summary: Scott, Stiles, and Lydia finally make it to college.None of them are quite sure why they thought they'd left the supernatural behind.After all, you can leave Beacon Hills, but Beacon Hills never leaves you.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. On his third day at UC Davis, Scott realises the college is in another pack's territory. At least this pack doesn't seem to want to kill him.

Scott arrives at college on a Sunday.

 

He misses his pack already, but he supposes they're not THAT far away. Liam and the others should be able to handle most things, and he can always drive back down if he needs to. College is only temporary. And he can go back to Beacon Hills in the breaks.

 

He unpacks – though he leaves some essentials stuffed in a bag he can grab quickly – and he settles in for the night, getting used to the scents and sounds of his new dorm room. It feels strange, being away from the familiar environment of home, but eventually, he starts to settle in, and he drifts off to sleep.

 

He counts Monday as his first proper day.

 

Originally, he was going to be on campus for a week before lectures started, but the Anuk-Ite had forced him to change his plans, and now he'd missed the entire first week. Luckily the administration had bought his “family emergency” story – and really, it sort of had been one – and agreed that he could start late. He hurries to the student office as soon as it opens, and breathes a sigh of relief when he sees that his first lecture of the week isn't until Monday afternoon. He spends the next couple of days in a frantic rush, trying to catch up on everything he missed in the first week.

 

Wednesday is, of course, the day before the full moon.

 

Scott hasn't had trouble with the full moon for years, but he still feels its power flowing through his veins, calling to him, singing in his blood. He takes a break from studying, and goes for a nighttime run in the campus park – it's big enough that no one should notice him being somewhat more athletic than a human should be. He leaves his claws hidden, though.

 

He's been in the park for about half an hour when he hears the howls. They sound close, and getting closer.

 

He knows the sound of werewolves when he hears it.

 

Cautiously, he pricks up his ears, sniffs the air, and moves closer.

 

As he approaches, their heads turn towards him all at once, as they pick up his scent and his soft footsteps. There's five of them, some older, some younger, and they've all conveniently put away their wolf form just before his arrival.

 

“Nice night for a walk?” he offers, giving them his best dazzling smile.

 

“Yeah,” says the one on the left suspiciously. He's blond, and a foot taller than Scott, but Scott can see he lacks confidence.

 

“Dangerous night for a walk,” says the one in the middle. She's about five foot, white but tanned, somewhere in her thirties, and has black hair chopped roughly in a shorter style. The others all orient themselves around her. Scott thinks she's probably the alpha.

 

“I can handle myself,” he tells her.

 

“Can you?” she says. “What's a young guy like you doing all alone in the woods on the night before a full moon?”

 

“Running, mostly,” he says. “I think you know how that works. I come in peace, though.” She looks at him again, and sniffs the air.

 

“You're a werewolf,” she says.

 

He grins.

 

“You're not a new werewolf, though,” she says, “cause otherwise you'd be running all over this place, fangs and all. So what are you doing in our territory?”

 

“Studying,” he says. “I just got here Sunday evening. Actually, I didn't realise there was a pack out here at all. This is the closest place to home that did the course I wanted. The rest of my pack is at home, or at different colleges.”

 

She nods, but still seems wary of him. To be fair, Stiles would tell him to be wary of her. “Alright,” she says. “We'll talk about this tomorrow. Meet me in the campus coffee house at six.”

 

“Morning or evening?” he asks, just to make sure.

 

“Evening,” she says. “I'm sure this lot can manage themselves on a full moon for one night.”

 

“I'll be there,” he agrees.

 

It's a testament to the patience Scott's built over his time as an alpha that he stays concentrated on his studies the next day. He goes to his morning lecture – Biological Sciences 101 – and makes notes and chats to some of his fellow students. He finishes copying up the set of notes he'd borrowed for the previous week. He has a burger for lunch from a little stand in the middle of campus, telling the salesman to cook it rare. He manages to sign up for the lacrosse club, who are very understanding about his late start to the term when they find out he'd been team captain. And at quarter to six, he makes his way to the coffee house, orders some hot chocolate, and finds himself a seat.

 

The other werewolf arrives at 5:59 exactly. She marches confidently towards his table, and sits herself in the chair opposite. All around them, students are chattering loudly, but right now, all his attention is on her.

 

“So,” she says, “which pack did you say you were with? If you were an omega, you could have joined my pack, but since you're not, I need to get in touch with your alpha to clear this up.”

 

“Actually,” Scott says, “I'm the alpha. And I'm from Beacon Hills.” He smiles, and glows his eyes at her gently.

 

Her mouth drops open, and her own eyes glow for a second, as she absorbs the information. It clearly wasn't what she was expecting. Before, she'd been acting like she was in control. Now, she looks slightly awed.

 

“If you're the alpha from Beacon Hills,” she says, a little breathless, “you must be Scott McCall!”

 

“That's me,” he confirms. “And you are?”

 

“Cassie Jenkins,” she tells him. “Did you really defeat the Beast of Gevaudan?”

 

“It was a team effort,” he says. “It won't be bothering anyone again, though.”

 

“Why did you start here late, anyway?” she asks.

 

“Well, I was going to be here a week early,” he says, “but then a bunch of hunters showed up at the same time as some ancient fear creature escaped from the Wyld Hunt. I couldn't leave my pack to deal with that without me. We trapped it again now, though, and the hunters are mostly gone.”

 

She looks at him, and shakes her head slightly. “How do these things keep happening to you over there?”

 

He just smiles at her and shrugs. He knows it's the Nemeton, of course, but he's not going to tell her about that if she doesn't know. Not yet, anyway. She sighs at him, breathing deeply.

 

“Alright, Alpha McCall,” Cassie says. “If what I've heard about Beacon Hills is even half true, I don't think my whole pack can chase you away if you really want to stay here. Still, I'd like to ask you what your intentions are here.”

 

“I really did just come here to study,” he explains. “I want to become a vet. It's close enough to Beacon Hills that my pack can reach me if they need to, and I'm going to head back there every time there's a break. As long as you're not hurting anyone, I don't mean your pack any harm.”

 

“In that case, I don't think we'll have a problem,” she tells him. “Just, please don't go turning people on my land if you can help it, and try not to rile up my betas too much.”

 

“I can do that,” Scott agrees.

 

“Then I think we understand each other,” says Cassie. She begins getting up to leave.

 

“Wait,” he says.

 

“Hmm?” she queries, standing behind the chair.

 

“If you have any problems with people being attacked around here, give me a call,” he tells her, scribbling down his number on the back of a flyer. “As long as you're not the one causing the problems, of course.”

  
“Of course,” she says, and takes the flyer. “I'll see you around, Alpha McCall.”

 

“Scott,” he says.

 

“Scott,” she replies, and walks off.

 

That went pretty well, he thinks. No-one tried to kill him at all.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 2\. Stiles is pretty sure the answer to the cold case his group is working on is werewolves. He really shouldn't be surprised any more.

The first thing Stiles hears when he walks back into the FBI is Amy on reception shouting, “Stiles! You're not dead!”

 

“Huh? Of course I'm not dead,” he babbles. “Why would I be dead? I've definitely not been doing anything dangerous or death-causing in any way, not me.”

 

“Stiles,” she says, serious, “you vanished from the scene of an operation. There's an investigation underway into your kidnapping.”

 

“Oh, that,” he says. “Well, look, I'm not kidnapped at all!” He realises he can't tell them about Derek, since they still think he's a murderer and getting the sourwolf arrested again would be very very bad. “He dropped me in the confusion and I escaped. Then I went to the hospital because somebody SHOT MY TOE.” He looks at her solemnly, willing her to believe him.

 

“Er... right,” says Amy. “I'll call the agent working the case now, then you can tell this to him.”

 

“Thanks, Amy,” he says, grinning. “I'm not gonna have to take any time out of lectures, am I? I'm really looking forward to learn how to solve crimes like proper FBI agents do instead of just figuring them out myself in my free time.” She stares at him, like she's not sure if he's joking, and makes the call. Stiles is used to people looking like that though, because he's always blurting out things that other people thought were weird even though they're perfectly sensible things to think about, thank you very much, and he can't help it if he's ADHD, Mrs Bird from second grade with the bad perm and the permanent sneer, there was no need to always pick on him like that by giving him detention all the time.

 

“Alright, he'll be down here to talk to you in five minutes,” she says. “And when you're finished talking to him, you should be able to get back to classes.”

 

“Good,” says Stiles, “cause I really don't wanna wait here for too long. You know, maybe I should just go up there to see him. Except then I might get shot because they're not expecting me to be there and who knows how trigger-happy FBI agents are these days. I mean, not all of them, I'm sure there's plenty of perfectly nice ones. And I know some trigger-happy people who are perfectly nice too, I mean, there's Chris, and Malia, and...”

 

“Stiles,” says Amy.

 

“Oh, right. Shutting up now,” says Stiles, and gets to work thinking of a better story than 'the guy you think is a mass murderer drove me back to my hometown so we could help my werewolf and other supernatural friends stop an ancient fear creature and the most jerkface hunter ever'.

 

Two hours later, everything is sorted, the FBI still don't know who Derek is (though they might slightly a little teensy bit think he's a kidnapper as well as a murderer now), and Stiles is back on the program, provided he goes to see an FBI therapist later in the week. (And, well, maybe Stiles kinda needs a therapist between the werewolves and the nogitsune and all the death and the constant fighting for their lives, but like hell is he going to open up about that stuff to some FBI suit who'll probably reveal the supernatural to the government and get them all killed by the Illuminati or the lizard people or something. Wait, is that offensive? Jackson's totally a lizard person. He's got the tail and everything.)

 

(Actually, he doesn't care if he offends Jackson.)

 

Stiles rushes along the corridor to the seminar room, and totally doesn't nearly trip over his feet, oh no, not him, and he manages to make it into the room a whole twenty seconds before the lecturer arrives. He acts casual, like he was totally there the whole time and not almost late at all. Definitely not.

 

“Good afternoon!” calls the lecturer entirely too cheerfully. Stiles knows. He's seen that grin on his own face when he was planning something. “You can call me Agent Page. And today, we're going to be talking about cold cases.”

 

After an entirely too long introduction where the guy rambles about how even though the existing evidence makes no sense an FBI agent must ALWAYS BE ALERT (and really, Stiles kinda wants to kill him if he doesn't stop shouting that every five minutes) and how old cases and cold cases are one of the best ways the new trainees can learn to understand the detective mindset (which Stiles already understands, thank you very much), Agent Page splits the class into groups of four. Stiles has refrained from interrupting during the agent's speech, even though he kinda wanted to several times, because something about the guy is making his spidey sense tingle, and he doesn't want to draw attention to himself, though really, Scott is the one with the werewolf senses, so why Stiles is better at sensing this sort of thing, he has no idea.

 

“In the envelope on your desks is all the information about a cold case from twenty years ago,” says Agent Page. “You have twenty minutes for your groups to come up with as many theories as you can about what happened that day. Begin.”

 

The other three people at Stiles' table are Meghan, Maria, and Jimmy. Stiles knows this from when he memorised the entire class list on his first day, but they all introduce themselves anyway.

 

“Your name is Mie- Mye- Meekzee- Mekzyslow, right?” says Meghan, who obviously also looked at the class list, but also obviously doesn't speak Polish.

 

“Mieczyslaw,” Stiles says as he rips the envelope open, because hell if he was going to not learn to pronounce his own name. “But call me Stiles. Everyone does.”

 

“Alright, Stiles, then,” she says, smiling as she tucks her curly ginger hair back behind her ears, tying it up in a black hair tie.

 

The papers in the envelope fall out all over the table, dry post-action reports mixed with vivid pictures of crime scenes. Immediately, Stiles starts organising them, seeing what he can figure out. He picks up a picture of the body of a man lying in a pool of blood, a bite mark deep in his throat, and, dammit, Stiles would recognise those bite marks anywhere.

 

“Werewolves,” he says, and, oops, he said that out loud, didn't he. His new group is looking at him like he's a little bit crazy, and he thinks Agent Page just glanced at him significantly, which is, well, a bit worrying. He needs to throw them off the scent – ha, scent – so he laughs a little bit, and says, “Hey, I'm joking. Obviously it's not werewolves, because obviously werewolves aren't real, don't be ridiculous, it can't be werewolves. Maybe it was an actual wolf or something. Or someone attacking someone with a fake set of wolf teeth, or wearing those plastic vampire fangs.” He thinks it works, because his group looks relieved that they're not going to actually have to deal with a crazy person. When he looks over at Agent Page surreptitiously, the agent's still contemplating Stiles with a far too serious expression for his liking, though, so it obviously didn't work completely. Well, he'll have to do something about that some other time.

 

“Why would someone bite someone wearing plastic vampire fangs?” asks Jimmy incredulously. Jimmy's a black guy who looks about six foot tall, but Stiles pegs him as a softy at heart. He's seen the miniature Pokemon attached to the guy's key chain, after all. It's one of the cute ones.

 

“I don't know, Jimmy. That's why it's a cold case!” exclaims Stiles.

 

“Why don't we read the papers before we start making conclusions?” suggests Maria, a Hispanic woman who Stiles thinks is probably the most sensible person at the table right now. Except for Stiles, of course. Stiles is obviously the most sensible person ever, anywhere. Even if that's not what Lydia would say. Well, who cares what she thought. (Stiles cares. Stiles really, really cares.)

 

“Good idea,” says Meghan, grabbing a sheaf of papers. Stiles follows along, grabbing the most interesting looking report and skimming through it for important details. Mostly, the details confirm his werewolf theory, though why the werewolf did it he still can't tell. He's working on an idea, though.

 

Five minutes later, they all summarise what they've read to each other, and start writing down ideas on the mini whiteboard that was included in the envelope. Stiles writes down his animal attack and fake teeth theories, though the last one gets him a look from Jimmy, and he also knows that only half of the places the photos were taken even have wolves or coyotes. Maria notes that all the victims look similar, and that someone was out for revenge on someone who looked like that. She can't explain the bite marks, though, even though they're in every picture. Stiles thinks she might actually be right, though. Meghan says that for bite marks, they're pretty neat. She jokes that maybe Stiles' werewolf theory wasn't that farfetched.

 

“Let's not write that one down, though,” says Stiles.

 

“Yeah,” she says, and suggests maybe it was zombies instead.

 

“It better not be zombies,” Stiles says. “Zombies are not what I need in my life right now.”

 

“This case is from twenty years ago,” Jimmy points out.

 

“Still,” says Stiles.

 

In the end, they add in the ideas that it could be a cult using a weirdly shaped knife for ritual purposes – that one's Meghan, again – and that it could be somebody who believes all brown haired five foot five women with freckles are secretly the advance guard for an alien army and they need to kill them before they take over the world – that one's Jimmy, and really, what kind of shows has he been watching? Stiles makes a mental note to keep an eye out for any more werewolf serial killers (and he definitely didn't think he'd ever be thinking that sentence before Scott got bitten), and the group present their ideas to the class.

 

Most of the other groups have come up with similar sensible ideas to his, and the thing with the alien army gets them a laugh, at least. One of the groups failed to come up with anything much (and Stiles bets at least one of that group will flunk out before the end of the program, because anyone with half the skills needed for detective work would have thought of something, even if it was ridiculous). One of the groups suggests zombies. Stiles glares at them a little.

 

One of the other groups actually goes with the werewolf theory, a little too seriously. Stiles looks over, trying to see if he can spot anyone who looks wolfy. He'd need Scott for that, really, though. Scott and his amazing nose.

 

And Agent Page is also looking at that group, his eyes narrowed slightly. Weird. Stiles is definitely going to watch that guy.

 

Idly, Stiles wonders how many other cold cases are unsolved because they're supernatural. It's got to be quite a few, at least if Beacon Hills is anything to go by, though he supposes that without the Nemeton things are probably at least a bit calmer in most places.

 

Still, he's glad he brought mountain ash.

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 3\. Lydia finds a body in a storage closet. Because of course she does.

Lydia takes MIT by storm.

 

She's not that worried about being late, even if she's two weeks late by now. After all, they were originally going to let her in as a junior. When she points this out, they nod, and agree that she CAN start late, but only as a sophomore. She agrees that's fair. When they ask for the reason, she grudgingly admits it was a family emergency.

 

It wasn't, of course, but they don't know that.

 

It irks her that she'll have to wait longer before she can get her teeth into the really juicy stuff, but she supposes they do have a library. There's nothing stopping her from doing some extracurricular reading.

 

She decides to join a sorority, because now that she's out of Beacon Hills she's decided she's going to be popular again. Not that she's ever been unpopular. Even when she'd been losing her mind, her make up had still been on point. Fortunately, formal recruitment might be over, but some of the sororities are doing informal recruitment for longer, and of course she passes the test to join. She's Lydia Martin.

 

She goes to an Analysis lecture on the topic of integration, and she falls into the rhythm of it easily. She's read whole textbooks and done problem sets on the topic over the summer. This is one of the courses she'd have skipped if she hadn't begun late. Her other lectures feel similar. There probably won't be much new material for her until the spring. She goes to a social and a meeting for her new sorority, and talks about things she'd last talked about with Allison.

 

(Really, between Scott, Stiles, and Malia, who was she supposed to talk to about clothes? She's been missing out.)

 

(There's still a hole in her heart where Allison used to be. She tries not to think about it.)

 

She can't remember the last time things went this well. It's a new phase of her life, and she loves it.

 

She should have known it couldn't last.

 

Just a week after she arrives, just as everyone is filing out of her Monday morning Partial Differential Equations lecture, she hears the sound of shattering glass, filling her ears, crunching and crashing its way through her mind. Lydia looks about, but nobody else seems to have noticed it, and suddenly she's wandering slowly towards the source of the noise.

 

She hears Claire, her new sorority math major sister, calling her name faintly from behind her, but she ignores her, continuing forwards, trance-like. She finds herself in front of a supply closet, and she feels compelled to open the door.

 

A body falls out. By the jersey she's wearing, the woman is from one of the other sororities, and there's shards of glass sticking out of her head.

 

Lydia screams.

 

As she returns to reality, she hears the sound of Claire coming up behind her. Claire sees the body and panics.

 

“Oh my God! It's a dead body!” the other woman shouts hysterically. Lydia rolls her eyes discreetly, and pulls out her phone, dialling 911. She supposes that if you haven't spent your teenage years with people dying around every corner, finding a body would be pretty shocking. As it is, Lydia's seen things a lot, lot worse.

 

“Hi,” she says to the man on the phone, “I've found a dead body.” She describes her location, and sits down on a nearby chair out of sight of the corpse, waiting for the police to show up.

 

“How are you so calm?!” asks Claire. “That's a dead body!”

 

“Claire, sit down and take a deep breath,” she orders firmly, trying to get her to calm down. “Believe me, I wish this was the first dead body I've found. I thought I got away from this stuff when I left home...”

 

“You've found dead bodies before?!” says Claire.

 

“Unfortunately,” Lydia tells her. She pauses, searching for the best way to explain it without revealing the supernatural. “There was... a statistically high number of serial killers in my hometown,” she tries. “One year, a guy killed half the 2006 swim team for revenge. Then there was the English teacher who turned out to be a crazy woman performing Druidic sacrifices. And that's not even counting the time a rabid bear got loose in the school. Or any of the times stuff happened at the hospital.”

 

“...wow,” says Claire, stunned out of her panic. “Tell me where this place is so I can avoid it.”

“Beacon Hills,” says Lydia. “And I wouldn't blame you.” The Nemeton will keep attracting things, Lydia knows, and Scott will keep standing in their way. She's probably going to be roped into helping until she's old and grey.

 

They keep talking, Lydia drawing the conversation back to more mundane topics, until the police arrive. They set up tape around the closet to keep people away, and a Detective Flanagan comes over to ask her if she was the one who found the body. She spins a tale about how she went the wrong way trying to get out of the building, and opened the door because she thought she smelled blood – and there is a pretty strong smell of blood, so the officer can't argue there. Claire backs her up, though Lydia catches her looking at her strangely.

 

After the officers give them permission to go, Claire waits until they're alone, and then says, “Lydia, I backed you up in there, and, like, I will again. But I saw you coming over here, and you weren't lost. You need to tell me: how did you know it was here?”

 

Lydia remembers seeing a set of Tarot cards fall out of Claire's bag two days ago, so she goes with something like the truth. “I have a sense for these things,” she says. “I guess it still works out here.”

 

“So, you're, like, psychic?” says Claire. She looks a bit sceptical, but not completely disbelieving.

 

“Something like that,” says Lydia, wondering who the woman was, and why she was killed. She supposes she ought to leave that part to the police.

 

“You're a mystery, you know,” Claire informs her.

 

Lydia just looks at her. Claire grins.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Up to here was going to be the whole story originally, with it just as a series of oneshots, but I'm feeling like there's more to be told of this story, so I'm going to keep writing.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Scott gets to know the other werewolf pack a little better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Italics in quotes are being used to signify text messages.

 

Scott goes running again that night, after Cassie has gone, but this time he makes more of an effort to keep out of the way of Cassie's pack. He thinks it'd be ok if he didn't, but there's no need to make trouble for no reason. He hears their howls in the distance, echoing through the night air, but he resists the urge to howl back, and heads in the opposite direction.

 

He doesn't have any other problems that night, apart from slightly startling a couple kissing in the woods. He just smiles at them and keeps on moving, and wonders how Malia's doing.

 

Friday morning is a lab session, and he gives it his full attention, though the smell of disinfectant is making his nose twitch. It goes well besides that, though. In the afternoon, he goes to a statistics lecture that's going towards his math requirement.

 

Sitting on one side of the room are Mr Tall Blond Werewolf, and a four foot five Asian woman wearing Wonder Woman shoes, who Scott's pretty sure he also recognises from the other night. They look towards him, as if wary of what he might do, so he smiles, and walks confidently towards a seat on the other side of the room.

 

“I told you he was just here for the class,” whispers Blond.

 

“You don't know that, Rob!” Wonder Woman whispers back urgently. “We don't know anything about him. He could be here for any reason! He could be here to kill us all.”  


“I don't like it either, Su,” hisses Blond, who is apparently called Rob, “but Cassie said he can stay, so we have to wait for him to do something wrong before we take action.” Scott presses his lips together, staring forward, because they've obviously forgotten he can hear them. And it sounds like he's going to have more trouble with this pack than he thought.

 

Somehow, he manages to focus on the lecture as they go over the normal distribution. He keeps half an ear out for any more comments from the other two werewolves, but they seem to be concentrating on the math for now, so he's able to stick to taking notes and attempting the problems the lecturer gives them.

 

As the lecture's winding down, he hears them start whispering again.

 

“What's he doing out here by himself, anyway?” Su grumbles. “He said he had a pack, but I think he must have got kicked out or something. I reckon he's an Omega. What did she say his name was? Scott?” Clearly, thinks Scott, Cassie hasn't told her pack ANYTHING. Well, he supposes he's not always open about things, and Derek certainly wasn't.

 

Scott's pretty sure Derek's more comfortable as a beta than an alpha anyway.

 

“I don't think that's it,” Rob whispers. “Cassie would've taken him in if he was an Omega. Unless he wants to kill us or something. Maybe he's fed up with being a Beta and he's plotting to kill Cassie to steal her power.” He pauses. “I think you're right about his name, though.”

 

The lecturer's just dismissed them, and Scott decides it's time to stop this comedy act before their theories get any wilder. He turns towards them, slowly standing up.

 

“Crap, I think he heard us,” Su mutters. The two look like they want to escape, so he walks over quickly, before they have a chance to.

 

“I don't need to steal anyone's power,” he says, smiling. “I'm already an alpha.” He glows his eyes at them, and they automatically respond. Both of their eyes are gold. Good.

 

“An ALPHA!” shouts Su, startled. “What?! How?”

 

“Keep it down around the normals, Su,” Rob hisses.

 

“Sorry,” says Su.

 

“Let's start this again,” says Scott. “Hi. I'm Scott McCall, from Beacon Hills, and I'm studying to become a vet. And like I said in the woods: if you're not hurting anyone, I come in peace.”

 

They still look like they think he could attack them at any moment, but Rob says, “Rob Lisle. Undecided on my major yet.”

 

Su reluctantly adds, “Su Zhang. I'm gonna be an engineer.”

 

“Engineering sounds good,” says Scott.

 

“You said you're the alpha from Beacon Hills?” she asks, dubious.

 

“Yep,” says Scott.

 

“Isn't that where all the weird stuff happened?” she asks.

 

“That's one way of putting it,” he says. “Man, I hope they're doing ok without me.”

 

“I heard you used to date a hunter,” says Rob.

 

“I did,” says Scott, and his voice comes out with something of a growl. Rob looks like he wants to ask more, but changes the line of questioning.

 

Scott really misses Allison.

 

“You really don't want to kill any of us?” Rob says.

 

“Not unless you're planning on going on a murder spree or something,” Scott tells him. “Which, I really hope you're not. It'll ruin my GPA if I have to stop ANOTHER serial killer.” The two stare at him for a moment, and relax imperceptibly.

 

“Alright,” says Su. “You don't want to kill us. Sorry we accused you of that stuff.” Scott grins at her.

 

“You know, Alpha werewolves need to study too. Why is it so hard to believe?” he jokes. Su grins back cautiously. “Anyway,” Scott adds, “now we've established that nobody wants to kill each other, I'm going to get dinner. See you around.”

 

“Uh, see you, Scott, I mean, Alpha McCall,” says Rob.

 

“Just Scott's fine,” says Scott, and leaves, because he's hungry. On the way to the food truck, his phone buzzes. It's Stiles.

 

“ _Heeeyyy, Scott!”_ it says. _“So I've got a free weekend next weekend. Not tomorrow, the weekend after. Come visit? Pleeeeaaase?”_

 

“ _Sure, Stiles :)”_ Scott texts back. It'll add to his student loan, getting a plane ticket, but it's worth it. _“See you then, bro.”_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It feels so weird writing "math" all the time. Over here in England, we call it "maths".


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 5\. Stiles gets caught up in an attempted mugging, without his trusty baseball bat. Luckily, Scott is on his way to visit.

Stiles wiggles his toes as he sips his coffee, resisting the urge to fidget too much in front of all these strangers in the FBI cafe place.

 

Ok, so maybe coffee wasn't the best idea, but he wants to be nice and alert when Scott arrives later, and coffee totally helps him concentrate. Scott's plane isn't getting in until ten at night! If he doesn't drink the coffee, Stiles is gonna be totally unable to focus after all the running around and studying and things he's done this week. It's worth a bit of extra fidgeting, right?

 

The last couple of weeks have actually gone pretty well. He hasn't seen Agent Weirdly Suspicious since the lecture on cold cases, and none of his classmates have gone missing, so if Agent Dude is secretly a hunter and his classmates are secretly werewolves or something, Agent Guy hasn't acted yet. It had turned out he hadn't even missed that much while he was 'kidnapped' either, so he only had to spend one evening catching up on that instead of getting distracted researching the history of the FBI college or how butterflies work or basketball or mysterious deaths of FBI trainees or whatever. (And yes, he may have slightly spent hours looking all those things up instead of sleeping. Which was why he needed the coffee.)

 

He looks at the case notes he's supposed to be reading through for his assignment, but he just doesn't want to read them right now. He's too distracted, thinking about how awesome it's gonna be to hang out with Scott and how he can show Scott all the cool places round here and introduce him to his friends. He wonders if Scott's made any friends yet at UC Davis. Probably has, because Scott is amazing and the friendliest and goofiest werewolf ever and there's literally no reason why anyone wouldn't want to make friends with him, so. Well, unless they were some jerkface hunter like Agent Suspicious probably is. Stiles should check that out sometime.

 

He looks at the clock, and, what, it's quarter to ten already? When did that happen? He shoves the notes into his bag, and hurries to get back to his rented apartment in a nearby neighbourhood. (What, he wasn't going to make Scott go through FBI security checks unless he needed to.)

 

His mind is racing from the coffee and his thoughts are going in every direction, which is why he's not paying attention to his surroundings. And that's why, when he's nearly back to his apartment and it's five past ten, he suddenly finds his path blocked by a guy holding a knife. He glances over his shoulder and sees there's another guy behind him, also armed, and, crap, Stiles is gonna die from some normal muggers even though he's survived werewolves and Japanese trickster spirits and everything under the sun, but mountain ash doesn't work on humans and he doesn't have his baseball bat, and he feels his heart beat faster and hears himself start babbling some nonsense, trying to distract the muggers in any way at all-

 

A growl comes from the right and suddenly Scott is there, barrelling into the mugger, eyes ablaze with red. The mugger goes flying into the wall, crumpling into a heap as his knife clatters to the floor, and Scott turns, positioning himself protectively between Stiles and the other mugger.

 

The mugger freezes, taking in the sight of Scott's glowing eyes and bared fangs. Stiles is pretty sure the guy's wet himself. Serves him right, the nefarious criminal.

 

“Sorry, man! I'll do anything you want! Please don't eat me!” begs the mugger, his cocky facade reduced to terror by the sight of the supernatural.

 

“You're going to leave my friend alone,” Scott growls, “and you're going to turn yourself in to the FBI. And after that, you're never going to attack anyone again.”

 

“Ok, I'll do it, I'll do anything!” cries the man. He's still frozen to the spot, his hand clenched around the knife, unable to let go.

 

“GO!” Scott roars, and the man is startled out of his stupor, runs off in the direction of the FBI. Stiles thinks he'll go there. He's just had the fear of Alpha werewolf put into him, after all. Which, thinking about it, he hopes word doesn't get back to Suspicious Possible Hunter Agent. At least the mugger'll probably have forgotten what he looks like.

 

Scott's calmed down now the muggers are dealt with, his fangs gone and his eyes their normal brown. He steps closer and envelops Stiles in a hug. “Are you ok, bro?” he asks.

 

“Oh, yeah, I'm good, Scotty, thanks,” Stiles tells him. “I'm just planning how to never ever again go anywhere without a baseball bat or pepper spray. I mean, that would totally suck if I got killed by some random mugger, right?”

 

“That would absolutely suck,” says Scott, still hugging him. Stiles squirms a bit, bored of standing still.

 

“Yep! Right, let's go and get you unpacked! Dude, I have so much to tell you, but let's do it NOT standing next to the unconscious mugger,” he says, and Scott makes an 'Oh' face and lets go of him.

 

“Oh, yeah, good idea,” Scott says. “You haven't met any werewolves, have you? Let me tell you about this pack I met at UC Davis...”

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 6\. Lydia knows that if this woman goes to the party tonight, it'll be the death of her. But there's no way she can just tell her that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter kind of got darker than the others, so, warning, I guess.

It's the Friday after Lydia found the body in the closet, and the police still have no leads.

 

Lydia tries not to dwell on it, but she can't shake the uneasy feeling in the pit of her stomach.

 

She's been doing her best to focus on her studies and her social life. She's at MIT, for goodness sake. This is her chance to finally show the world how talented and stunning she really is. But she's learned to trust her feelings, and she knows that Stiles wouldn't ignore a murder – that was how it all started, after all. And she's pretty sure Scott wouldn't either, if he thought he could help. And Lydia can help, she thinks. So she's been keeping her ears open, just in case there's anything she can do.

 

“Lydia!” shouts Daisy, one of her new sorority sisters, grinning, eyes bright. “How's it going?” Daisy's a biology major, with big dreams of winning the future Nobel Prize. Also, her heels are killer.

 

“Oh, you know, just finishing up my problem set,” Lydia tells her. “What about you?” Daisy looks at her, conspiratorial.

 

“Well, hot Brad from Bio 101 definitely winked at me earlier today,” Daisy says, “so I'd say it's going just fine.”

 

“Brad with the arms?” Lydia asks. She may be dating Stiles, but hey, she can still appreciate hotness when she sees it.

 

“Brad with the arms,” Daisy confirms. “Hey, I heard there's a party tonight with some of the frats. You coming?”

 

The world slows down, and Lydia hears the sound of glass as a window smashes, the dull thud of something hitting the floor. A chill seeps into her bones.

 

“Lydia? Are you okay?” says Daisy, waving her hand in front of Lydia's eyes.

 

Lydia stares at her, horrified.

 

If Daisy goes to that party tonight, she will die.

 

Unless Lydia can do something about it.

 

“It's nothing,” she says, because nothing says 'I'm a crazy person' quite like telling someone 'I'm a banshee and I just had a vision of your possible death'. “Are you going? You don't have any assignments or anything?”

 

“Pah! It's the weekend. Assignments are for Sunday mornings,” Daisy says. “Friday nights are for something else.” She wiggles her eyebrows suggestively.

 

Lydia's pretty sure now that she won't be able to talk Daisy out of going, and preemptively injuring her would probably break their friendship forever at this point, so she says, “Sure, Friday nights are party night! I'll be there.”

 

“Great!” says Daisy, and explains the details of how to get there. “I'll see you then.” The other girl grins and wanders off, and Lydia starts planning – her outfit, her make-up, and, oh, exactly what she's going to do to keep anyone from dying tonight.

 

It turns out Claire's going to the same party – actually, most of the sorority is. Claire, who's an actual sophomore who's been here for a year already, explains that it's a pretty big deal, since it's the first party of the season taking place after most of the new recruits who were going to drop out have already dropped out. They help each other pick out cute dresses, and Claire asks her whether she's done the algebra problem set yet. Lydia agrees to go over it with her on Sunday.

 

“Claire,” she says tentatively. “This is going to sound weird. But if you see Daisy at the party tonight, please help her stay out of trouble?”

 

“The freshman bio major?” Claire asks, looking puzzled. “Sure, but I don't see what she'd be doing to be IN trouble in the first place. Did she say something odd?”

 

“No,” says Lydia. “It's just, I have a feeling about this. Like the feeling I had the other day.”

 

“You have a feeling?” says Claire. “You mean, like a psychic kind of feeling?”

 

“No, some other kind,” says Lydia sarcastically. “Yes, a psychic kind of feeling.”

 

“I think I'd decided you were kidding about that,” says Claire. “That you must just have a really good sense of smell or something.”

 

“No, that's my friends,” she says. “Just, please, look out for her?”

 

“Ok,” agrees Claire, and Lydia breathes a sigh of relief.

 

They get to the party around nine, which is a quarter of an hour after the opening time. Lydia looks around, but she doesn't see Daisy there yet, so she just takes in the atmosphere.

 

It's the kind of party she'd usually love, if she weren't so concerned about possible death. There's good music, tasteful decoration, and plenty of alcohol. She picks up one of the complimentary glasses of champagne from the entrance, and sips it slowly, because she definitely won't be able to help Daisy if she's drunk.

 

Five minutes later, she spots Daisy come in through the oak double doors. Lydia watches her down half her champagne and make a beeline for the crowd of frat boys loitering around the pool table.

 

Right, she thinks. All she needs to do now is keep an eye on her.

 

It works, for about an hour, even as the party grows busier and Lydia finds herself persuaded into having more to drink, socialising, and generally getting down to the business of partying. Through strategic positioning, she manages to keep sight of Daisy even through a whole game of beer pong. It works, right until she finds her vision blocked by a six-and-a-half-foot giant of a guy, leering down at her drunkenly.

 

Because this is an _MIT_ party, he says, “I wish I was a derivative, so I could lie tangent to your curves.”

 

“Think of me as an asymptote,” she says, “because you're never going to touch me.” The guy frowns, and Lydia puts a little more distance between them. Now she can see past him, she sees Claire, snickering at the comeback- and, damn, she can't see Daisy. She strides away from the guy before he can recover and try again, and asks Claire if she's seen the other girl go anywhere.

 

“Heeeyyy, Lydia!” Claire says. And, great, Claire's totally drunk. “She left just now with some total hottie. Somebody's gonna get lucky tonight, if you know what I mean.”

 

“Great!” says Lydia, filled with foreboding. “That's great...”

 

“Forget about her, anyway,” says Claire. “You're here to party.”

 

That's when Lydia hears the scream.

 

“I've got to go find her,” she tells Claire, and runs towards the stairs.

 

“Lydia?” calls Claire. “What's wrong? I'm sure she's fine!”

 

As she's running, Lydia hears the glass shatter, just like she heard before, followed by the slow, dull, thud. It's much louder than it has any right to be, and, dammit, she thinks she's too late.

 

She turns into one of the bedrooms, takes in the crumpled sheets, the broken window, the muffled beat of the bass coming from the party below blocking out any chance of help coming. Slowly, she walks up to the hole in the glass, and looks down.

 

Beneath her, in the distance, a man with dark brown hair is dragging Daisy's crumpled body away from the scene. It's too far to make out the details, but Lydia knows. This is the man who killed her.

 

She screams, a wail that can surely be heard over the music of a hundred frat parties. The man looks up, briefly, and she knows that he's seen her.

 

After what feels like an eternity, Claire and some other party-goers trickle into the room, looking around at the mess.

 

“Lydia, what happened?!” asks Claire.

 

“He killed her,” she says. “He killed Daisy...”

 

A couple of seniors, acting as chaperones or something and therefore sober, make a call to the police. Lydia waits for them to show, gives them her story – that she was worried about her friend's potential date and went upstairs to check on her, followed by an accurate description of what she saw – and then leaves the party with Claire. Nobody hassles them over it.

 

“Wait, when you said Daisy was in trouble earlier,” says Claire, in the sort of epiphany only drunkenness can bring, “did you know she was gonna die?”

 

“Yes,” says Lydia.

 

“Creepy,” says Claire. “I just can't believe it happened! She was so nice, and cute...”

 

“Death's like that,” says Lydia. “But I'm going to help catch that guy. He's not going to do this again.”

 

“How are you gonna catch him? You're a math major, not a cop,” says Claire.

 

“I'm more than that,” says Lydia, resolute. “I'm Lydia Martin.”

 


End file.
